


Hades

by chants_de_lune



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boxing, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Flirting, Hurt/Comfort, Paranormal, Urban Fantasy, illegal fighting clubs, underground fighting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-25 17:42:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15645732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chants_de_lune/pseuds/chants_de_lune
Summary: Raven knew she should just drop the gauze and ice, move on and let him take care of himself.  But something about his face, the set of his shoulders, as if carrying a burden, intrigued her.   He was otherworldly, that was certain.Raven follows Clarke into the underworld of illicit paranormal fighting  and finds an angel within its walls





	Hades

The harshness of her fluorescent desk lamp was biting into Raven’s eyes as she poured over her physics notes, tapping her fingers against an empty Coke can. Rest was for the unmotivated; she could sleep in tomorrow, breakfast be damned.  Her ears had grown dull to the muted, near silence after the stampede of chattering party girls had left the dormitory. 

 

The stillness was broken by the keycode beeping and the unlocking  _ click _ of the door.  Raven dropped her pencil as Clarke walked in, bobbed hair a frizz and clad in scrubs.  

 

“Rough shift?” she asked, turned around.  Clarke shrugged, toeing off her Keds. 

 

“The usual. Had to cover for a friend, that why I’m late.” 

 

Raven turned back to her desk, but when she looked up again, Clarke had changed into a second pair of scrubs.  “Going out again?” Her brow furrowed, watching a roommate pull a brush through her hair. 

 

“It’s Friday,” said Clarke simply.  Raven raised her eyebrows. She didn’t ask where Clarke went on Friday nights.  It was an unspoken understanding that she was doing something morally good but undoubtedly illicit. Illicit activities that involved paranormals and people getting hurt, hence the medical kit Clarke had taken out from underneath her bed and tucked in a thick, canvas bag.  

 

“You don’t wear scrubs out on Fridays,” said Raven softly.  “Tonight’s different?” 

 

Clarke sighed, pausing for a few moments, before nodding.  “Tonight might be bloodier than usual.” She crossed her arms apprehensively, biting her cheek.  “And I have to ask you for a ride.” 

 

Raven bit back a laugh, seeing the grim look staring back at her.  “You’re serious?” 

 

Clarke nodded. “My car is still at Sinclair’s.”  

 

Raven rubbed her eyes.  “You’re a witch. Can’t you magic yourself there?” 

Clarke shook her head, flexing her fingers for naught but a few silver sparks.  “It’s been weeks since I did a replenishing ritual for my magic, I’ve been so busy with work.” 

 

“Can’t you do it now?” 

 

“Takes three hours, I need to leave by midnight.”

 

Raven scoffed, shaking her head.  “No. I don’t ask, I don’t get involved.  If you’re going to risk getting shot-” 

 

“We wouldn’t get shot,” Clarke interjected.  “It’s a rule.” 

 

“A rule?” blurted Raven, turning away from her desk and putting her hands on her knees.  Clarke inhaled deeply, sitting on the edge of her bed and clutching her hands. 

 

“The fighting rings have bouncers to pat down everyone who comes in.  Also the place will definitely have more paranormals than humans,” she finally said, and Raven kicked herself for not figuring it out weeks ago. 

 

“You’re a medic for Mount Weather.”  

 

The underground paranormal fighting community had gotten its name coined from the company of the abandoned warehouse in which they had hosted the first events.  Locations had shifted since then, but the name stuck with the growing numbers. 

 

“Yeah, patching cuts, putting ice on bruises, telling the runners which fighters to bench for concussion treatment,” said Clarke.  “Miller got me into it before he met Jackson.” 

 

Raven had met Jackson, he was a quiet man in Clarke’s clinical group.  She had only heard of Miller in rare passing. Miller, who was an elf, if she remembered correctly, was the the type to do favors for people.  Favors with varying levels of legality. 

 

“Neither of them are free?” she asked, eyeing the sneakers peeking out from underneath her bed.  Clarke shook her head. 

 

“I think they’re already there.”  

 

“What about the guy who drove you when your ex slashed your tires?” she prodded.  

 

“Roan said he was busy and couldn’t make it.”  Raven raised an eyebrow again. 

 

“Is Roan doing something illegal tonight?” Clarke tilted her chin, pensive.  

 

“Quite possibly, he didn’t have details.  Tieflings are secretive.” 

 

Raven groaned.  “I wouldn’t just be doing drop off and pick up tonight, would I?”

 

Clarke shook her head. “It’s a bare-knuckles tournament.  I even heard a whisper that anti-healing dust was going to be coating the floors.  I’ll need your help with the damage.” 

 

Raven sighed, standing up to slip on her shoes.  “You’re lucky I still have my bra on,” she mumbled, zipping a hoodies and grabbing her keys.  “Otherwise, this wouldn’t be happening.” 

 

Clarke snorted, swinging her bag over her shoulder.  “Oh, you can’t bring your brass knuckles,” she added, “Too easy for someone to pickpocket and use in the ring.”

 

Raven rolled her eyes, unclipping the brass from her keyring.  “I better be allowed pepper spray,” she grumbled, reaching for the small bottle in her handbag.  

 

“I’ve brought it with me, you’re good,” said Clarke as they left the dormitory.  The early autumn breeze was more eerie than chilling as they walked into the parking lot.   

 

“Where are we headed?” Raven clicked the button on her keys and her grey coupe chirped in response. It fit her needs: fast, not flashy, and for tonight, hopefully forgettable.  

“Downtown.  They’re holding it under Polis,” said Clarke, buckling her seatbelt.  

 

“The nightclub? Parking will be shit.”  

 

“Not if you go in the back lot.”  

 

Raven paused with her key in the ignition, pinching the bridge of her nose.  “You really want me to get stabbed tonight.” 

 

“If you get stabbed, you’ll have a nurse nearby,” joked Clarke as they pulled away from the student lot and headed towards the city.  

 

“How long are we staying?”

 

“Few hours.  Do you have plans tomorrow?” 

 

“You mean after putting a cup of coffee on your nightstand and hitting the gym? Not much,” she said, making Clarke laugh.  

 

“We’ll sleep in, and brunch is on me at Gina’s as a thank you,” she replied.  

 

“I’m getting the deluxe pancakes, Griffin,” Raven muttered as she pulled into the furthest corner of the lot, parking a few slots away from a harmless-looking Camry.  

“How do we get in?” she asked, pepper spray in hand and checking her locked doors.  

 

“Back entrance, I have a pass.”  Clarke rifled through her bag before pulling out a white cloth with a red cross stitched in the center.  The bouncer at the back door nodded at Clarke, recognition perking in his eyes, but he frowned at Raven. 

 

“She’s with me. I need extra hands tonight,” Clarke said smoothly.  The bouncer stepped aside, taking their bags as they entered. A slender woman with a bleached pixie cut patted both of them down, her hands mindful of Raven’s brace.  

 

“You’re good to go,” she said.  Clarke took her bag and hiked it back onto her shoulder.  She jerked her head towards the stairs, dark in stark contrast to the neon lights of the dance floor.    

 

“C’mon, let me show you the Underground.” 

 

Raven followed her apprehensively down the stairs.  The thumping bass of the club music upstairs gradually dulled underneath raucous shouting and the  _ thwacks _ of fists hitting flesh.  The hazy air was tinged with sweat and blood.  Packed bodies increased the heat. Raven pulled her sweatshirt over her nose.  

 

“You get used to it,” said Clarke. 

 

“I don’t want to.” 

 

The lights in the basement were a dim mix of red and yellow, with a brighter lamp over each ring, spotlighting the fighters.  Strange tapestries lined the walls. The rings themselves were naught but a horde of men holding scraps of paper, huddled around a circle drawn in chalk on the cement.  To the human eye, it appeared like any other illegal fighting arena. But Raven could see through the glamours; there were auras flaring like siren lights all over the place.  She jumped as a small man in the ring nearest them staggered from a hit and fell into the crowd. 

 

“This is Hell,” she said lowly, horrified. 

 

“This is Hades,” Clarke told her.  “That was the codename I was given for this night.”  She pushed her hair out of her eyes. “They have ice packs in those coolers there.  Hand one to any empty-handed idiot with a black eye.” 

 

Raven went to a cooler and took out two packs, frost stinging her hands, while Clarke opened her med kit.  As they crossed to a row of men sitting on benches, Raven followed Clarke’s gaze to one of the rings. The bulkier man seemed to be human, with buzzed hair, meaty arms and tattoos of crosses on one side of his face.   

 

The other fighter was leaner, with darker, tanned skin.  He raised a forearm to brush his sweat-drenched curls out of his fierce eyes, jawline sharp as a dagger, and Raven was hit with deja vu. He seemed familiar, like a guy she might have made out with once in the club above them.  

 

She looked back to Clarke, who had her bottom lip caught between her teeth, watching the fight with a furrow in her brow.  Raven saw her wince as the dark-haired man was dealt a rough blow. A weak golden mist bloomed from Clarke’s fingers. 

 

“You have money on him or something?” she whispered to her.  Clarke abruptly shook her head and turned back to the benches.   Raven shadowed her, observing Clarke as she settled into nurse mode with antiseptic and gauze, judging bruises and analyzing concussions with a pen light.  The two of them made constant tripes between benches, coolers, and tables with extra towels. 

 

About half an hour later, Raven saw a man stumbling towards the benches, falling onto one with a shuddering breath.  His aura was different, glowing like a pearl in a sea of darker colors. She’d never seen one like that before, nor could she remember what it meant.  She stuffed some of Clarke’s things into her pockets, grabbed another ice pack, and walked over to him. 

 

He didn’t see her at first, with his eye bruised and his head resting against his palm.  Raven’s stomach churned slightly, so her eyes turned from his injuries to his tattoos. Something unrecognizable on his left forearm, a jet on his left, five stars extending out from his wrist.  

 

“Military?” she asked, sitting down across from him.  He looked up, staring in confusion for a few moments, then he muttered, “Air Force.”  

 

“What’s a veteran doing here?”  She opened a pack of wipes and slowly reached for his hands.  He flinched, but let her cup his palms in hers, wiping the blood off his spilt knuckles.   

 

“Trying to get the rest of the fight out, I guess,” he said cynically, eyes fixed on the rings.  Raven knew she should just drop the gauze and ice, move on and let him take care of himself. But something about his face, the set of his shoulders, as if carrying a burden, intrigued her.   He was otherworldly, that was certain. 

 

She looked back down to his hands, still tenderly clasped in hers.  “This might sting,” she said, picking up the antiseptic and soaking a cotton pad. 

 

“I’m used to pain,” the stranger mumbled.  Raven’s heart clenched. 

 

“I know what that’s like,” she said, her voice low.  His eyes flickered to her brace, then up to meet her gaze. She felt a slight rush of irritation there hadn’t been pity in his eyes, but she felt exposed nonetheless.  

 

“Why bare knuckles?” she knitted her brows.  “At least with mitts on, you might not get cut to shreds.”  

 

She felt the blunt sting in her words.  But with a Seelie mother, Raven had a hard time hiding her true feelings.  

 

The stranger scoffed.  “My job doesn’t give me enough benefits for a shrink.  I get twice the usual cut when the gloves come off.” 

 

Raven bit her lip, reaching for the ice pack.  “Still seems like a risk not worth taking.” 

He huffed, and she felt his derision.  She was being presumptuous. 

 

“Course you would say that, college girl,” he said, eyeing the print on her sweatshirt and pushing away the ice pack with a mumbled, “give that to someone else.” 

 

Raven scowled, putting the pack directly onto his bruised eye, daring him with her glare.  “My name is Raven,” she said firmly, “And trust me, I know what it’s like not being able to afford what you need.”  She unraveled the dirtied wraps from his wrists with one hand, wincing slightly at the dried blood. “I’m a year behind in school because someone dipped into my funds,” she admitted under her breath, reaching back for a damp cloth. 

 

“Shaw, my name’s Shaw,” he said, reaching to hold the ice to free her other hand.  His fingers grazed hers briefly, and the spark of warmth nearly startled her. “Who took the money? Mom or Dad?” he asked softly.  

 

A lump formed in Raven’s throat.  She couldn’t lie, and she didn’t have the desire to put up her wall again.  “Mom,” she said. “For booze.” 

 

Shaw’s stony expression softened.  He flinched as an ear-splitting scream echoed through the basement.    “You’re too pretty to be in a place like this,” he said quietly. Raven let out a short laugh as her heart ticked  furiously. 

“Usually people say that about my friend over there,” she shrugged, jerking her head towards the flash of blonde in her peripheral.  Shaw shook his head, smiling even though it must have stung his lips. 

 

“You’re too hard on yourself,” he muttered, his fingers tracing the lines on her hands.  “Pretty and smart.” Raven looked down at his hands and noticed tiny runes that she had missed before.  She cocked an eyebrow at his remark. 

 

“How do you know I’m smart?” 

 

“Your attitude, for one,” Shaw tilted his head, then rubbed his thumb over the calluses on her middle finger.  “And you write a lot, if I’m reading this right.” 

 

Raven nodded.  “Dozens of equations, if I’m not coding.”  She averted her eyes when his fingertips passed over hers, feeling the bumps left by hours on a keyboard, and his gaze fell on her manicure.  

 

“It’s drugstore polish,” she mumbled.  

 

“Pampering on a budget,” he quipped, and Raven smiled despite the drone of shouts in the background.  Shaw glanced at the rings again, clenching his jaw. 

 

“Trust me, they’re chipped and covered in oil during the summer,” she said, tugging his attention back to a lighter topic.  

 

“You’re a mechanic?”

“Sinclair’s garage. Old family friend.” 

 

“So how long have you been a Mount Weather medic?” he asked.   Raven checked her watch. 

 

“About two hours.”

 

Shaw raised an eyebrow.  “Lot of time to spend on one guy.” 

 

Before Raven could respond, he smiled and said, “You stay here long enough, you get a favorite.”  He gestured to his left. “Just like your friend did.” 

 

Raven turned and saw the dark-haired fighter from earlier walking towards Clarke.  All the tension in his shoulders and all the fire in his eyes seemed to dissipate as he came closer.  His hand, bloodied in a torn wrap, reached for her waist, but Clarke gently tugged him to a vacant cot.  As soon as he was seated, the fighter put his arms around her hips, leaning his face into her chest. Clarke stroked his hair soothingly  for a few moments before pulling away to wipe the blood off his hands. 

 

“She never lets anyone in like that,” said Raven, brow furrowed as she watched Clarke, who was wiping blood from the stranger’s face with a touch that was far too tender to call clinical. 

 

“Neither does Blake,” said Shaw.  “She’s the only one that he lets touch him outside the rings.”  

 

“What was it like when she first showed up?”  Shaw let out a short chuckle. 

 

“Don’t make me laugh, Raven, it hurts,” he said, albeit grinning as he rubbed his jaw. “Let’s just say that I’ve never seen a nurse so stubborn about setting a broken nose.” 

 

“She’s a witch, that’s why,” said Raven, unable to hide her curiosity.   She studied Blake again and immediately found the supernatural markers that had set him apart from his opponent: the paw-like curl of his fingers, the hard set of his jaw,  hair that seemed thick enough to resemble fur. “And he’s a werewolf.” 

 

Shaw nodded.  Raven thought about asking his lineage, but she bit her tongue and kept watching the pair.

 

Blake’s hands, split knuckles but assuredly strong, were sweeping back Clarke’s hair.  Clarke cupped his face, fingers avoiding the bruise he’d received just minutes ago. The two looked ready to kiss, their gazes warm, soft, and attuned only to the other. 

 

“Staring’s rude,” Shaw chided her teasingly.  Raven turned back to him and shifted away, . She hid her intrigue with a shrug. “She had a devastating breakup last year, dumped with no warning, I’m glad she’s found someone.” 

 

“It’s good protection,” said Shaw.  “Most guys in here have the common sense to leave the medics alone but there’s a few sick fucks who’ll try anything.”  At Raven’s wide eyes, he put his hand on her wrist, warmth emanating instantly. “Don’t worry, he’s kept her safe.” 

 

“Doesn’t he have enemies?” asked Raven, watching Shaw’s shoulders tense as his eyes made contact with whoever was looking at her from behind.  She wondered if he was like Blake, protective of the people who weren’t here to throw fists. 

 

“He does,” murmured Shaw, still looking away as his hand curled tighter on hers. “That’s always a risk.  Especially when bets are running high.” 

 

Raven laughed to herself, pulling her hand away to comb through the remaining supplies in the bag. “But it’s worth it to have a paranormal boyfriend in the underworld?” she joked, rubbing antibacterial ointment on his raw-skinned hands.  

 

Shaw smiled again, and she hated how foxish he looked with the cut on his mouth.  “You got a man?” Raven shook her head, letting out an exasperated exhale. 

 

“Would I be patching up a stranger who boxes with no gloves if I did?”  

 

“I don’t know, would you?” 

 

Raven sighed.  “The last ‘man’ I had was not boyfriend material.” 

 

“What was it, not eating you out?” 

 

Raven refused to let her cheeks flame at how casual his tone was with oral sex.  “That,” she nodded, “And he was a card-carrying racist to boot.” 

 

“Yikes,” Shaw raised his brows.  “Wouldn’t mind punching that guy next week.”   

 

Raven scoffed, leaning forward to apply salve to the cut on his cheek.  “You’d beat up my douchebag ex for money?” 

 

“I’d knock him out for free,” said Shaw in a warm, raspy voice that could make her toes curl if combined with certain other things. 

 

Raven bit her lip, feeling attraction coiling low in her belly despite the small corner of her brain shouting profanities at her about the very fucked up nature of this encounter.  She picked up a damp rag and dabbed the corner of his mouth, watching his eyelashes flutter slightly. 

 

“Any way I can get you out of this shithole and up to a bar?” she asked, brazen lust etched on her face and singing through her Seelie blood.  “I bet you clean up nice.” 

 

Shaw grinned, a near criminal glint in his eyes that had Raven pressing her knees together.  Her gaze flitted again down his jawline to his neck, shoulders, chest, forearms, thighs- yes, this was a bold avenue that she was ready to take.  

 

“It’ll take a couple days for my eye to heal,” he slurred, holding her hand in his, “so maybe if you’re free-” 

 

The end of his proposition got drowned out by screams and shots fired near the stairwell.  Raven jumped, seeing a row of uniforms at the other end of the room with the words PARANORMAL DIVISION  stamped on their shields. 

 

“Shit, the cops found us tonight,”  Shaw gritted his teeth, springing to his feet.  Raven searched the crowd, but she saw neither Clarke nor Blake in the chaos.  

 

Before she could cry out, Shaw clapped a hand over her mouth, tugging her behind an overturned bench.  She tasted antiseptic and copper, probably blood from a tear on the inside of her cheek. 

 

“There’s tunnels hidden in this room.  It was designed for easy paranormal escape,” he said, speaking almost too fast for Raven to hear.  “We’re ten feet away from one and Blake knows them too.” He leaned in close, his breath cresting hot over her ear. “Do you trust me?”  

 

Raven nodded, and his hand jerked away, closing around her wrist as he pulled her towards a hole in the wall.  Something whistled over her head as she ducked beneath the tapestry disguising the escape route. She ran into the darkness, pushed by a herd of criminals and pulled along by a man with a golden heart, white aura, and runes marking his skin. The realization hit her hard as her lungs started to ache. 

 

_ Nephilim.    _

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This fic is inspired by the class I'm taking with fantasy writing. Let me know what you think!  
> big thank you to stargirlclarke and jordanngreen on tumblr for beta-ing!


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